Fields of Gold
by meetmeinstlouie
Summary: A companion to my Chelsie historical AU fic Most Quiet Need. This is intended to be an epilogue to the ending of that story, which is not finished yet, so...if you don't want ANY spoilers, please don't read this. The setting is California, late 1800s.


**A/N: This little one-shot (well, I MEANT it to be little, and then it kept going) has two inspirations. I was ill recently, and when the antibiotics finally kicked in, I got this stuck in my head. It's a glimpse into the future, of the end of my unfinished fic Most Quiet Need. So if you don't want to know (ultimately) what happens to Chelsie in that story, don't read this.**

 **You have been warned.**

 **For those who may not have read that story, it is a historical AU set in the United States, mostly California, in the mid-1800s. It's about young Chelsie, and their family and friends.**

 **If you do want to know what happens at the end of their story, read on. I did try to keep certain details vague, so that you'll still want to read Most Quiet Need. Maybe that's crazy, but I want to share this with you.**

 **Think of it as skipping ahead to the last chapter of a book. Although that's not entirely accurate, since the other fic will have its own end. This is its own thing, but it is related.**

 **The second inspiration of this one-shot is Sting's "Fields of Gold". That song has screamed Chelsie to me since…well, as long as I've been a fan. If I had more discipline, I'd finish the other fic and there would be no need to give you this. So...yay for intemperance?**

 **Please send your thoughts, your feels, your huddled masses yearning for something different. Tell me if you think it's ridiculous to skip to the end before finishing a fic, or if you think it's a great idea! (A Chelsie Choose Your Own Adventure?)**

 **I really do appreciate reviews, reblogs, and messages. Anything. I've been struggling lately with questioning my own writing ability, and while I do not like asking (gulp), it really would give me a boost to hear from you. Thank you.**

 ***The phrase "lived and loved together" is a phrase from a famous letter written in 1861 by a Civil War soldier, Sullivan Ballou, to his wife. Google it, or find the abridged version on YouTube set to the song "Ashokan Farewell". If you can read or listen to the whole thing without crying, I salute you.**

* * *

 _Will you stay with me, will you be my love_

 _Among the fields of barley?_

 _We'll forget the sun in his jealous sky_

 _As we lie in fields of gold…_

 _See the west wind move like a lover so_

 _Upon the fields of barley_

 _Feel her body rise when you kiss her mouth_

 _Among the fields of gold_

 _I never made promises lightly_

 _And there have been some that I've broken_

 _But I swear in the days still left_

 _We'll walk in fields of gold…_

 _Many years have passed since those summer days_

 _Among the fields of barley_

 _See the children run as the sun goes down_

 _Among the fields of gold…_

* * *

 _ **California, late 1895**_

He sits half bent over, concentration written on his face.

 _Smooth its snout. Mustn't leave splinters for her little fingers._

Carving a wooden dog is not one of his strengths. Especially not since his hands started shaking two years ago. Just the thought of it brings a tremor, and he inhales deeply through his prominent nose. He sets the unfinished dog on his left knee, and carefully sets down the knife on the empty chair next to him. He flexes his fingers.

He stretches out his leg for good measure. It does not bother him much, certainly not as much as John's bothers him, and yet sometimes just a slight movement brings discomfort.

It is a reminder of a time thirty years before. When the sunny world he lived in was overshadowed by war. When he marched for days in freezing rain, and scorching heat. Enduring hunger.

When he saw men fall by the thousands around him.

He can still recall the scent of gunpowder, and of blood.

Of the dead rotting in the sun.

He closes his eyes, hoping to keep the worst memories away. The last thing he wants is to wake shouting in the night.

There have been no dreams for a long time.

By far the worst memory of the war is not the battles themselves, or even the death he witnessed, though those are bad enough.

It is the memory of leaving the children behind. Of leaving Elsie behind.

Of being without them while he was far away.

A soft breeze from the west fans its way across the vineyard, bringing with it the sound of laughter. He smiles, feeling the tension leave his shoulders.

The rustling of the vines reminds him of the day he left. The memory is bittersweet.

The pain of parting from Elsie, mixed with the fierceness of the love they bore for each other.

" _Why is it such a beautiful day?" She whispers, her head resting beneath his chin. She trails her fingers through his chest hair. "I know…it's good for you. You'll have a fine ride to Sacramento." Lifting her head, she gazes into his eyes, her own showing anguish. "But I'd rather it be raining."_

 _He understands what she means. His heart is breaking as much as hers is._

 _The day is extraordinarily beautiful. Warm, but not hot. White clouds, little wisps of them, dance in the blue sky above. The barley field around them is rippling gold. Their horses graze near the cottonwood tree nearby, their quiet nickering and soft thud of their hooves peaceful._

 _War could not seem farther away._

" _I'm sorry," her voice cracks, tears beginning again._

" _Don't-" he tries to soothe her, drawing her head down to his chest. "There is nothing_ wrong _with being sad. You shouldn't be so hard on yourself."_

 _Her body shakes in her grief. "I…will_ _not_ _cry in front of them," she finally chokes out. "Not in front of our bairns. But I don't want to make you feel worse about going. You must go, it is the right thing."_

" _You never could make me feel guilty," he runs his fingers through her unbound hair. The vibrant red speaks to him of life, of everything that is dear to him. "You are stronger than I am. No doubt my first week the commanding officer will reprimand me for blubbering in the ranks." She laughs then sighs, and wraps her arms tighter around his torso._

" _Promise me," she says, "that you'll have your picture made after joining your regiment. You, in your uniform."_

" _I promise. I'm so glad you had yours made for me," he murmurs. It was a surprise he had not expected. Her small tintype portrait is now safely stowed in his saddlebag. "I'll look at it every day."_

 _He gently rolls her over onto the calico quilt. Her body rises when he kisses her mouth._

 _He wants to drink her in. He looks upon their time apart as a traveler would, who must cross a barren desert before coming home again. She is his oasis._

 _She has been since the day she saved him in San Francisco._

" _Stay with me," she pleads as he moves over her, inside her. "Charlie, mo ghraidh, mo chridhe…I am yours, my man." Moaning, she digs her fingernails into his back. Both the pain and the pleasure make him cry out. He pushes harder, feeling her on the brink._

 _Her red hair is spread out on the quilt. The contrast of its color and the gold around them is striking. She arches her back, keening, as he gives her bliss._

" _I promise," she hears him rumble, "We will see this place again. We'll walk together in the vineyard-" he lets out a groan as her voice rises in pitch, "-and I will love you like this again. Always, my love." He thrusts into her over and over, pouring himself into her._

 _So much of himself will stay with her while he is gone. He knows he will be only half himself without her._

 _He prays to God that he will be able to keep his promise. To return to her._

* * *

He blinks in the bright sunshine. To say he remembers that day is not strong enough.

It is more like he relives it. The pain, and the joy.

Picking up the wooden animal again, he carefully carves until he is satisfied with it. Setting it and the knife aside, he leans back and rests against the back of the chair.

She finds him asleep when she comes out of the house.

A soft smile appears on her lined face at the sight of him. Her husband. Her man.

Her only love, who kept his promise and returned to her arms so many years ago.

Raising her hand to shield her eyes from the setting sun, she calls to the children running and playing in the golden field beyond the vineyard.

Then she walks to her still-sleeping Charlie. She ignores the stiffness in her hip. It is something she has grown to live with.

 _And I regret no activity that may have made it worse._

Her color rises. They cannot risk openly sharing their love, not now, not today when there are so many little ones underfoot.

But the day before when they went walking in the barley field, his kisses were so sweet she would not stop him.

Nor did she wish to.

 _They kiss, and kiss again, wrapped around each other._

" _Elsie," he whispers. His breath tickles her ear. She giggles, squirming a little in his arms. She catches her breath when she steps back, taking in his strong frame. The wild eyebrows she has come to know so well. His silver hair._

 _He is as handsome as the day they met. More._

" _Let's sit down," she says. They sit, holding hands. Neither of them are young anymore – well, as he says, they're not_ old _. He falls a bit heavily on his rump and laughs at his own clumsiness._

 _In the time it takes her to remove her hat and pins, he scoots over, his arm around her waist. His other hand caresses her back. "Take down your hair," he murmurs. "Please."_

" _They will be here soon," she protests, even as she begins taking pins out of her hair and setting them aside. "If they get to the house and we're not there-"_

" _They'll wait for us." His hands continue to wander. He raises an eyebrow. "They know how we are."_

 _She smiles through her blush. "Children should not have to think of such things."_

" _Need I remind you that the 'children' are grown up? And the grandchildren are as yet, still innocent of such things? The younger ones, at any rate."_

" _No thanks to you," she grumbles at him. He grins and kisses her neck, making her sigh. "The last time they visited, you left whitewashed handprints on my bottom!"_

" _It was not my fault," he argues. She unbuttons his shirt, takes down his suspenders. "When you brought the washing in, you were windswept. You were delicious," his lips capture hers again. "My darling girl, my fair bride."_

 _She wants to continue their spurious quarrel. It is the spice of their partnership, the sparring between them. But his hands and his mouth together are making words impossible. From the groan he lets out, he cannot maintain the façade, either._

 _His breath is warm on her skin. After he helps her remove her corset, he kisses her breasts, her belly and her thighs, paying no mind to what time and age have wrought on her body. He carries scars as well._

 _Fleetingly, she thinks of the day he left for war. How young and strong they were._

 _They are frailer now, more brittle. He never ceases to ask if she is all right. If he's hurting her. She asks the same._

 _And yet when their bodies join, it is better, richer than before. She laughs in her joy. Like the wine from the grapes they grow, their love only gets better with age._

" _Charlie," she cries, her fingers caressing his hair, "More…"_

 _Shouting, his voice echoes through the branches of the cottonwood tree. She feels him reach his pleasure, and she follows soon after._

 _Their closeness is what she treasures. That they are still together after all these years._

Her ring glints in the sun as she pulls a stray hair back. The memory of the previous day is very precious, as are so many days that they have lived and loved together.*

The children have not responded to her call. Shaking her head, she steps into the vineyard to get closer. She calls again, and this time she receives an answer. They begin to run from the barley field up the hill.

Charles snores in the chair, his head bobbing slightly.

She touches him on the shoulder to wake him. Her heart melts at the adoring smile he gives her.

"Were you dreaming?" she asks, bending over to kiss him.

He swallows, and sits up. "No. But I was remembering. The day I left." He lifts her hand and kisses it, wagging his eyebrows.

She smooths back his hair, a wry smile on her face. "If you want that woman in your bed, she's long since gone." Picking up the knife and the wooden dog, she gestures to the house. "It's time for dinner."

His belly rumbles, and they both laugh. "We'd best go in," he chortles. "The bairns are worse than locusts! They'll go through it all before we get a bite!"

"That they will," she touches his cheek as they walk. "But we'll keep them anyway."

"Nana!" A black-haired boy shouts. "Did you make apple tart?" Several children crowd around the water pump, washing their hands. Henry and Emmy try to stay out of the splashing water. Caroline simply dries her hands on her dress, oblivious to the dirt stains she leaves.

"There is," Elsie's eyes grow soft. "But you can only have some if you wash thoroughly, and eat _all_ your dinner first."

The boy with black curls enthusiastically pumps water for his cousins, sending a spray onto the ground and over his feet.

"Not so hard, Jackie," Charles calls to him. "You'll track mud into the house-"

"Och, let him be," Elsie tugs on his arm. "The floor can be scrubbed."

Charles raises an eyebrow. "You spoil him. All of them."

"I'm their gran," she shoots back. "I'm allowed to spoil them, if I wish."

He nods in Jackie's direction. "You used to spoil his father, too."

She rolls her eyes. "You used to as well - don't you remember?" Striding across the porch, she opens the door and they go in. The kitchen is stifling, because the stove still cools, but the windows are open, letting a breeze through. The grandchildren crowd inside, talking, laughing, and still jostling each other as they sit down at the table.

Charles waits until everyone is seated before he clears his throat.

The rooms quiets, the little ones wriggling in their seats.

Caroline, the youngest, lisps through grace with a solemn earnestness. Elsie struggles to contain her laughter. _The little dear._

"We thank you, God, for thith our food,

For life and health and every good.

Let manna to our thoulth be given –

The bread of life thent down from heaven."

Dinner is finished in short order, and the apple tart brought out. As Henry says, with big eyes, it's his _favorite._

"It's Granddad's favorite, too!" exclaims Emmy, beaming at Charles.

"How did you know?" he asks, seemingly surprised. "You're a very smart young lady."

"We'd best give him some then, don't you think?" Elsie asks. She winks at him.

They eat their dessert faster than they devoured their dinner. When Charles gives the little wooden dog to Caroline, she squeals as though it is Christmas morning.

Elsie shoos them out of the kitchen so she can sweep up the mess. Then, after giving Henry and Caroline a good scrubbing, she takes them upstairs and puts them to bed. Thankfully, it only takes two songs and one silly story to make their eyelids droop.

She goes downstairs after they are asleep, to find Jackie and Emmy at Charles's feet. She tiptoes into the room, into the middle of another story.

It is not one she remembers him telling for a long time. Since _their_ children were small.

"…suddenly as I walked along, _BANG_!" He taps his hand on the arm of his chair for emphasis, and the children jump. "I found myself flat on my face in the middle of the street! Whatever had happened? Then I heard a deep voice say to me, 'Give me all the money you have, and then I'll kill you'. He put a knife to my throat."

In the flickering light of the oil lamp, Jackie's eyes are wide. Emmy whimpers, and climbs onto Charles's lap. After a moment, Jackie joins her.

"Were you scared, Granddad?" Emmy asks, leaning her head on Charles's shoulder.

"Very much so," he tells her, hugging her close. "I was more scared than when I fought in the war."

Elsie is not sure this is true, but she does not want to interrupt. She sits down in the rocking chair.

"Why?" Jackie asks. "Why were you more afraid then?"

Charles wraps his other arm around the boy. "Because I was alone," he says softly. "I had no one. Uncle John and Aunt Beryl knew I was going to sail away, but if I had died, they might not have ever found out what happened to me."

"But you didn't die," Jackie says, glancing at his younger cousin.

Charles gives them a reassuring smile. "No, I didn't. In fact, I never even got a scratch on me."

"Did a cowboy come and save you?" Jackie asks eagerly. Emmy rolls her eyes.

"There _were_ no cowboys in San Francisco!" she scoffs. " _Every_ one knows that-"

"Yes, there were!" Jackie insists. "All kinds of people came here to look for gold! Why not cowboys?"

Before it can erupt into a real argument, Elsie speaks up from the corner.

"What happened next?"

The two children look over at her, as does Charles. She folds her hands on her lap. "It must be quite a story," she says. Only her husband sees the twinkle in her eye.

"It is," he nods, giving her a grin before turning his attention back to his intended audience. "So there I was. Frightened and alone. The blade was cold under my chin. I thought I was done for," he says in earnest. "And then I heard the click of a Colt revolver."

"See! I _knew_ it was a cowboy!" Jackie's dimples show, and his eyes shine.

"It wasn't a cowboy," Charles tells him. "Although the person who saved me is a fine shot – better than I am, as a matter of fact."

"But you were a sharpshooter in the war, Granddad! _No_ body's better than you!" As flattering as his granddaughter's words are to him, Charles knows she is prone to exaggeration.

"Thank you, precious," he kisses her head. "I heard the click of the gun," he continues before the story is derailed again. "Then I heard another voice, one I'd never heard before. She said to the robber, 'Drop your knife, or I'll drop you'. Well," Charles takes a deep breath. "The robber dropped his knife and ran. I knelt in the middle of the street, stunned by what had just happened. I was relieved, of course, that I hadn't been hurt," he says to Jackie, "But I was also embarrassed that a _woman_ saved me."

"A – _girl_ saved you?" Jackie's mouth is a perfect O.

"Who was she?" Emmy asked.

Charles nods at the woman sitting in the corner. "Your grandmother."

The astonished looks on the children's faces is so funny, Elsie laughs. Jackie keeps looking from Charles to Elsie, and back again, as if waiting for one of them to say it's a joke.

" _Really?_ " Emmy swings her head around, her mouth gaping open. " _You,_ Nana?"

"Me," she rocks the chair back and forth. "I didn't know who your Granddad was. But I saw the robber trip him in the street. I had to do _something_. Your granddad and I talked for a bit after that," she tells them. "He walked me home."

"I didn't get on my ship the next day," Charles finishes. "Instead I went back to the boardinghouse and asked to see the strong, smart, beautiful, red-haired woman I'd met the evening before. I wasn't alone anymore, you see." His eyes, so full of love, make tears come to Elsie's eyes. "I loved her from the moment I saw her."

Jackie snorts out a laugh. "Just like that? That would _never_ happen to me!"

"Don't be too sure, lad," Charles laughs under his breath. "You never know. Now, I believe it's time for bed for the two of you," he says, just as Emmy rubs her eyes, and Jackie tries to stifle a yawn. Elsie gets up from her chair.

"It is past time for you both to be asleep," she agrees. "All of your parents would not be pleased if they knew. Shhh," she holds a finger to her lips. "Don't tell them."

The children giggle. They hug Charles goodnight, then follow Elsie upstairs. By the time she is done putting them to bed, Charles has come upstairs too.

He is in their bed, the covers down, already in his nightshirt. She takes down her hair.

"It's mostly grey now," she says to the mirror. "Almost all of the red is gone." She sighs, flipping her braid over her shoulder, and climbs in next to him. He draws her into his arms.

"You said the young woman who saw me off to war was gone," he kisses her forehead. "You likely think the woman who saved me is gone, too. I disagree."

"Isn't she?" she rubs his shoulder. "You are kind, but I doubt my aim is what it used to be. I can't remember the last time I picked up the revolver - or the rife. And...I don't know what I would do if we were apart again," she whispers.

She has only recently told him of the nightmares she suffered while he was away.

"The truth is, the woman who saved me all those years ago, the woman I married, the woman who held together our home while I was away and who was waiting when I returned from the war, the woman I love…she is still here now," he pulls her chin up. "You have been my strength. You always have been. You're still as strong as you were then, and still as beautiful. More." He cups her face in his hand.

"Flatterer," she shakes her head, but smiles anyway. "I'm glad you think so." He pulls her even closer.

"My memory might be fading, but she _did_ spend a glorious time with me in the barley field yesterday afternoon."

She runs her hand down his chest. "Mmm, she had a lovely time, too. Perhaps she'll walk with you there again." Her lilt is heavier than usual. His body stirs.

He dips his head and gives her a long, slow kiss. When they finally break apart, she is gasping, and her eyes are dark.

"I love you," she breathes. "You were a gift to me that night in San Francisco…you still are," she hums as his hands find the hem of her nightgown. "Always, Charlie."

 _His heart called to mine._

"I'm glad I was a fool then," his voice is ragged. "Would you ever have found me if I hadn't been?"

"Yes," she says with complete faith. "Somehow, some way, we would have found each other."

His lips taste the soft skin of her neck, tracing a path down to her chest. "I love you," he sighs.

Stars appear in the night sky, almost invisible due to the fullness of the moon. It shines over the dark house where the children sleep and the couple loves. It beams over the vineyard, creating shadows.

It lights the barley field. The stalks appear white, until the night passes and the dawn breaks, turning them gold.


End file.
